Man on Fire is a perplexity. Dakota Fanning is a prodigious wonder; Denzel
Washington has been one of my favorite actors since Crimson Tide; and
Christopher Walken is a demigod. The same-titled novel by A.J. Quinnell on
which the movie is based is an extraordinarily intelligent, well-written,
and provocative story. Yet, somehow, Tony Scott's film adaptation of Man
on Fire is less than the sum of its parts. But not much less.

I can't help but feel that the visual style of Man on Fire is pretentious.
Many sequences are filmed using a hand-crank camera, or are cross-processed to
produce a high-contrast, highly saturated look. Artsy subtitles ooze onto
the screen – sometimes even when the characters speak English, just in
case the audience is too daft to notice when something important is said.
It felt like Scott was going for that trendy, European techno flair, but it
seemed misplaced and overdone.

This might be the biggest flaw of Man on Fire, and it's something I can
overlook, because this film also gets a lot of things right.

The story of Man on Fire revolves around John Creasy (Denzel Washington), a washed up ex-mercenary
with a penchant for killing, whose only solace is found at the bottom of a
bottle of Jack Daniels. In Mexico City, he meets his old comrade Rayburn
(Christopher Walken), who convinces him
to take a low-paying job as a bodyguard to the family of a near-bankrupt
socialite named Samuel Ramos (Marc
Anthony). Creasy is forthcoming about his alcoholism when
interviewed by Ramos, but he is specifically instructed not to divulge that
fact to Ramos' wife, Lisa (Radha
Mitchell).

A clip from the film.

Creasy's true charge is Pita, played by the beautiful Dakota Fanning, who
portrays the kind of character Dakota does best: intelligent, wise, and
compassionate. Creasy is a curiosity for Pita, although despite her best
efforts to befriend him, Creasy maintains an emotional distance and
professionalism. Naturally, Creasy's detachment only serves to fuel Pita's
determination to pierce his crusty shell.

Pita's series of methodic and surgical strikes against Creasy's emotional
barrier begin in the form of innocuous questions during her rides to
school. She chooses to sit in the front seat, making the psychological
statement that she considers Creasy, on some levels, to be an equal. To
her more benign questions, Creasy is evasive, but when Pita eventually asks
him about the scars on his hand, it strikes a nerve, and he lays it out to
her: "I am not being paid to be your friend. So no more questions. That's
it. Period."

Pita meets Creasy.

Later that evening, Creasy again turns to solitude and alcohol. Tormented
by the violence of his past, Creasy's psychological state spirals, and
although he is resolved to shoot himself, his pistol misfires. Confused,
he extracts the bullet from the chamber, fully intact. Creasy wanders
outside in the thundering rain while an effective contrast of Debussy's
Claire de Lune rings in the background, and he calls Rayburn. Creasy
cryptically asks Rayburn about a failure to fire, to which Walken expertly
delivers the line, "Like we used to say, the bullet always tells the
truth."

With the odds of a failure to fire being 1 in 10000, Creasy realizes the
misfire was some karmic message that there is still a purpose. There is no
darker place for a man than that where he gains the will to end his life.
And having just come from this place, having made the decision to rethink
his life, Creasy looks up and sees Pita watching him from her room. This
moment is a turning point, and marks the beginning of the love story
between Pita and Creasy.

The evolution of the relationship between Creasy and Pita is an absolutely
critical element of the story, and I am happy to say that nearly the entire
first half of the movie was devoted to this vital character development.

The two form a rapport as Creasy trains Pita for her upcoming swim meet.
And Creasy becomes more involved in Pita's life in other ways, such as
sitting with her while she does her homework, taking her out for lunch with
Rayburn, or coaching her to burp in order to shirk her piano lesson. In
one scene, the two exchange some late night dialogue from across their
bedroom windows. Pita gauges Creasy with small talk, and is visibly
satisfied with his new attitude toward her. She flashes him a gentle,
caring smile and tells him goodnight, and spins around her room, leaping
onto her bed like a girl in love. She kisses her teddybear (whom she later
names Creasybear) and blissfully falls asleep. If we're unsure about the
strength of Creasy's affection for Pita, here it becomes very obvious that
Pita is herself falling in love with Creasy.

Pita kisses Creasybear goodnight.

Through their relationship, Pita shows Creasy what it means to be alive.
And as their mutual happiness heightens to new levels, the audience can't
shake the foreboding: after all, the movie's not even half over. The
inevitable happens, and Pita is kidnapped while Creasy very nearly dies
defending her. Negotiations with the kidnappers go awry, and Creasy, who is
bandaged and bedridden, learns that Pita has been executed.

Man on Fire is a story clearly divided into two parts. The first half is a
love story, and the second half is a story of revenge. There is a certain
emotional purity that I admire about this story as it has been crafted by
A.J. Quinnell: pure and innocent love between Creasy and Pita, and pure and
calculated hate from Creasy toward all those involved in Pita's death. In
his last appearance, Walken delivers a line that aptly describes the latter
act of the film: "Creasy's art is death. He's about to paint his
masterpiece."

The scenes that follow earn this film its R rating. Creasy begins
interrogating his first lead: a member of La Hermandad, the group that
orchestrated Pita's kidnapping. Once Creasy has acquired the information
he needs, he moves on to the next person, intent on climbing the ladder of
authority until he reaches the top, killing anyone who had a hand in Pita's
death.

Creasy "questions" a man who was involved in Pita'skidnapping.

Creasy is brutal, ruthless, relentless, and also quite inventive in how he
obtains information. He is also systematic, detached, and professional,
and we begin to appreciate the nature of Creasy's past training. I was so
emotionally connected with Pita that I too lusted for revenge. Each finger
hacked off and each body blown up was a small emotional release. But being
of the generation that's been tempered in Hollywood violence and Internet
gore, it wasn't enough. I wanted more. There was no fate gruesome enough
for those responsible for Pita's death.

The film's final scene delivers a rapid-fire sequence of strongly cathartic
moments. The powerful soundtrack composed by Harry Gregson-Williams with
Lisa Gerrard's beautiful but haunting vocals in no small part heightens the
emotional intensity. I find I am simply incapable of keeping a dry face
during this scene.

"I love you, Creasy."

I remember vividly the first time I saw Man on Fire. It was in a fairly
crowded theatre and, as the movie ended, I stoically walked to my car while
a lump the size of Texas developed in my throat. Once sitting in the
driver's seat, cloaked in the privacy of night, I wept. I didn't shed a
few tears or get a little choked up. I wept. I cried because, like
Creasy, I fell in love with Pita. And because I identified and connected
with Creasy. Whatever Man on Fire's faults might be, very few movies have
had (and continue to have) this level of emotional impact on me.

For those of you who have read A.J. Quinnell's novel, you will find that
Tony Scott's version of Man on Fire differs in many respects. The story
takes place in Mexico, rather than Italy; the entire middle act of the book
(where Creasy spends months at the farm to recover and train) was
understandably not included in the film; Pita is 3 years younger than her
character in the book, which serves to emphasize the innocent nature of
Creasy and Pita's love; and, most importantly, the ending of the film was
completely rewritten. Also, interestingly, Pinta's character was renamed
to Lupita, because the Mexican vernacular for "pinta" means "whore." (And
considering Dakota played Pita, I certainly agree with this divergence from
the book!)

Dakota is almost entirely absent from the second half of the movie, but her
performance in the first half easily compensates. Dakota was naturally
charming and lovely, as she always is, and I especially enjoyed the
interplay between Denzel and Dakota during their first drive to school.
And, as usual, her colleagues speak nothing but praise of her. Tony Scott
adds, "She is an extraordinary little thing: intelligent and so grand and
so honest in terms of her response to what she does in her life and the
people around her." Denzel Washington attributes Dakota with "watchability"
– a quality he has said of only one other actor (Gene Hackman).

Pita watches as Creasy pins on his flower.

It is worth noting that on the Man on Fire DVD, Dakota participates in a
commentary along with screenwriter Brian Helgeland and producer Lucas
Foster. This is mandatory content for any fan of Dakota's. She is both
adorable and interesting to listen to, and she has much to say. It's also
extremely touching that during the final scene Dakota cries. Sniffling,
she says, "It's so sad." I dare you not to love her!

Man on Fire fails to deliver its potential, but in spite of its faults,
it's still an extremely solid film. Although not as good as Lucy in I Am Sam, Pita is an
excellent role for Dakota, allowing her to push her range as an actor. No
part of her performance feels forced, and she handles her scenes with
Denzel Washington and Christopher Walken with poise, refusing to be
upstaged. Man on Fire is not a cinematic masterpiece, but it still comes
strongly recommended.